Writing Regina
by hopefulfeathers
Summary: An OQPromptParty oneshot, #44 Regina picks up the newest book by her favorite writer. Another bestseller that she can't get enough of. What she doesn't realize is that the heroine from those books is inspired by her and the books were written by her sweet, handsome but oh so shy (at least in RL) neighbor Robin


**Hi guys! Finally I've managed to finish my prompt for OQPromptParty week!**

 **#44** **Regina picks up the newest book by her favorite writer. Another best seller that she can't get enough of. What she doesn't realize is that the heroine from those books is inspired by her and the books were written by her sweet, handsome but oh so shy (at least in RL) neighbor Robin.**

 **Enjoy! This is quite the long oneshot!**

* * *

I read to get lost—to venture far away. And never return.

In the very darkness of my life, my books have provided for me an escape, a sanctuary in which I was able to feel safe and secure. In the bleakest of times (and there were many), I ran to the novels, seeking them out as if I would a best friend. And in many ways, they were my friends—my only friends.

I wasn't always like this, you know. There was a time when I simply loathed reading. The simple thought of a book was revolting, and in my early childhood, I used to purposefully go out of my way to avoid any contact with it. I blame my mother. She was always forcing me to read such bland works of nonfiction writing that had absolutely no body, no richness or depth in emotion and character—no flavor to satisfy the voracious palate of my mind.

I wanted more. Oh! How I really wanted more!

But she never gave me a chance; always sticking such tedious, such monotonous books that all read like a perpetual string of textbooks in my face. It was downright frustrating. Any other book (a fantasy or romance, perhaps) I'd try to buy behind her back she'd discover and confiscate immediately, saying that such novels would only fill my head with irrational thoughts of love or happy endings. Even to this day, I can hear her voice in my mind saying, "Love is weakness. Books like these only make you weak," over, and over, and over again. She might as well have made that her slogan. She bore that into me night and day, more than enough so that quickly, I came to despise all books no matter what the genre.

It's unfortunate that it had to be during the darkest time of my life when I was awakened once more to the very thought of books. I was free from my mother at that point, but not from the clutches of darkness that still lingered about despite my belief and confidence that it had finally gone. Just when the light touched, the dark struck again, wrapping its cold chain around my heart and soul and pulling tighter and tighter, threatening to squeeze the life from me.

The love of my life had died of leukemia—the very last of his breaths almost physically tearing me apart as I stood over him, knowing in full that in the end, it was my decision to end his suffering. It was the hardest decision I've ever made. The only minimal comfort being that he was no longer in pain, but that didn't make the departure any easier. I cried day after day, and night after night, holding tightly to a little stuffed bear he'd given me on our first Valentine's Day in the most cliché of ways.

I truly thought my life was over. That was, until I received a gift. Mary Margaret, the closest woman I'd ever called best friend had dropped by to offer her condolences, and in doing so, presented me with a book. She told me it would help me heal…that it would give me hope.

The book was written by a man named Robin Locksley. He was a new author, up and coming. It was his first book, so she told me to give him a chance.

So I did.

The minute I read the first lines, I knew I would instantly fall in love.

And I did.

Day after day, and night after night, I pored over the pages, addicted and downright ravenous for more. The novel struck a cord with me. From that moment on, it was unlike anything I'd ever written (even when I perused the books of other authors of the like after I was finished). So touching, so honest, and so passionate, Locksley's novel reduced me to tears as it opened my eyes to the possibility of faith and belief, of hope for a better future. It taught me strength: strength to carry on, to keep fighting for a life worth living. And it showed me a new world, a world that doesn't dwell on the negative, but the positive—an optimistic outlook on life as a whole.

 _Even in the sunset, there swirls the colors of darkness amongst the orange and the red. Yet all of those shades involved, dark and light unite to ultimately create something beautiful._

Not that any such notions are simple, but they did inspire a little bit of faith when I needed it most.

Robin Locksley's novel ended far too soon. I wanted more. So, the second he emerged with another, I bought that one too. And the next…and the next…and the next. I followed him, the loyal fan I was, right up through when he rose to the title of "bestseller," and to this very day.

So it is on this brisk fall morning that I find myself wrapped in a heavy leather jacket and scarf, making my way on foot from my white picket-fenced neighborhood down to the local bookstore. It's the usual ten to fifteen minutes: walk down three blocks, take a left, then a right, and I'm there. Locksley's new book is out today, and I'm thrilled.

Not many people are out on this leisurely Saturday morning. The few who are, are early joggers or those walking their beloved pets. I pay them no mind, digging both hands into my pockets and carrying on. It's only when I pass the last house (on the corner of Sherwood and Apple, just a few houses down from mine, to be exact), that I notice a gentleman hard at work in jeans and a hoodie, raking the leaves of his front yard. He stops what he's doing as soon as he hears my boots against the pavement, blue eyes gazing up to lock with mine for but a second before he's ducking his head and returning back to the task at hand.

It's a curious thing that happens almost every time he is outside and I just so happen to walk by. He stops whatever chore he's doing, looks up, locks his blues with my chocolates, and abruptly looks away, going back to whatever he was occupied with before. If I don't know any better, the look he gives me is almost one of longing. It makes me almost guilty to have the very depths of his sapphire eyes searing into my own and not say a word to him. But, I fear that if I speak with him, he'll want to start something. And I'm in no mood to begin anything again. Those books may have helped heal me some, but some old feelings die hard especially when rooted by the pain of the past.

So on I walk, striding en route to the only bookshop in this small one-horse town. It's very much a _Beauty and the Beast_ scenario, for I'm sure the storeowner knows who I am by now after all the countless times I've been in there scouring the racks for something good to read whilst I wait patiently for the next Locksley novel.

I've lived here for about four years now (having moved after my beloved's death), and never have been to a bookstore as good as this. What I like about it most is that in addition to selling big name authors, it also takes its chances with new authors like those Robin Locksley used to be. Its collection may be small, but unique.

The little bell on the inside handle of the door rings that familiar sound as I walk in, shaking off the cold. The warmth of the place is a welcome change to the frigid weather of the turning season.

The storeowner, Mr. Gold, a short little man with small glasses resting on the tip of his pointed nose greets me with his usual, "Hello, dearie!" to which I respond with a simple smile and nod.

"Back again, I see?" Gold continues to sing. I nod silently again, dark eyes peering at the man as he walks around the counter. "What are you after this time? Or are you just doing your usual browsing?"

I shake my head. "No, I'm actually here for Robin Locksley's new book." I clear my throat, taking out a clipping of a critic's review cut out fresh from this morning's newspaper. I hand it to him. "It's called _Beneath the Surface_."

"Ah, yes," whispers the man with widened eyes, "This one is quite the hit, I hear." He turns and heads down the isle of books to the _New Releases_ section. I follow like a puppy in pursuit. "The boy has really outdone himself this time. The reviews are outstanding, as you can imagine."

A small smile tilts up the corners of my lips. "Yes, I'm aware," I reply, "I read every single one of them."

"Of course, you did," Gold responds with a chuckle.

I watch as he stops and skims down the row of books in front of him, his long pointer finger trailing over the bindings of each one.

"Ah! Here it is," he announces, pulling out the hardcover novel. He hands it to me and I stare intrigued down at the front cover. It depicts a closeup of the face of a woman with raven colored locks. Her eyes are closed as her head is tilted downward, a single tear running a path down her pale skin. Only half of her face, the half that shows the tear, is shown. The very image stirs something within me, some emotion I have yet to name, and immediately I'm captivated. Locksley has always been known to have a running theme of hope even when in the face of adversity throughout all his books, so I'm curious to see what this new novel holds.

"Intriguing, isn't it, dearie?" Gold's voice interrupts my reverie.

I look up abruptly into the hazel eyes of the storeowner. "It is," I sigh thoughtfully, clutching the book to my chest. I nod at him. "This will be all. Thank you."

"You're most welcome."

I follow him back up to the register where I pay the twenty-five dollars, asking for no receipt or bag. It is then that I start back home, eager to dive straight into this new masterpiece.

I walk swiftly back, boots thumping fast against the pavement as I clutch my precious book to my chest. The world flies by as I'm deep in thought, pondering over the many possibilities of topics and plots that this book could hold judging by the simple image of the cover on the front. I deduce quite easily that it must obviously be about a woman in pain.

 _But who and why?_ That remains to be seen.

Leaves swirl around my feet as I cross the threshold of my front lawn. Up three rickety steps of my old and worn out porch (I really should have had it redone), and I'm letting myself back into my humble abode. As I shut the door, mind on Locksley's book, I almost miss the rectangular white envelope that had been squeezed through the mail slot and now lies beneath the heel of my boot. Frowning slightly, I lift my boot and bend down to retrieve it.

 _Oh right, the mail must have come._ I turn the envelope over only to read the last words I'd ever expect to find written big and bold across the center. _Robin H. Locksley_.

I must look like a madwoman staring agape at this particular piece of mail. In my mind, I can't possibly believe I'm reading this right. I blink and try again. _Robin H. Locksley_.

 _Fuck_. I look around as if I am a child who's afraid to get caught with something she shouldn't have. "Impossible," I breathe, staring back down at the envelope and rereading the name for the third time. I'm completely and utterly speechless. It's almost embarrassing to be a fan of such an accomplished writer such as Locksley and not know that he lives—three houses down! I shake my head, at a loss for actions.

Well, for starters, I have to give the envelope to him. I'm not about to keep it, or worse, throw it away. It could be something important. Suddenly, my day has gotten a whole lot interesting, far more interesting than reading the new novel by my favorite author of all time. I'm about to meet said author.

 _But what do I say?_ Do I introduce myself and tell him that I know who he is and that I'm a fan of his work? Lord knows that he must be rather quiet for the entire neighborhood not to be buzzing with word that he's been living on the same street. Or do I simply play it cool and hand the letter to him, apologizing for the mistake? I shoot for the latter.

I notice that the wind has picked up, shaking the leaves off every tree I pass on the sidewalk. As I'm showered with red and orange and gold, I feverishly try to brush the leaves free from my dark shoulder-length hair that blows all over the place. I clutch the envelope to my chest, folding my arms tightly around it to keep it from blowing away in the short two-second walk.

As I near where I believe his house to be, I pull out the envelope to determine the exact number once more. _23_. I frown again. Continuing to walk, more slowly this time, I carefully read the golden letters mounted on each front post of the uniform pearly white gates that almost every front lawn of this neighborhood has.

 _19…21…23…Fuck._ I can't be at the right house. _Can I?_ Before I can even register what's happening, I find myself in front of—I'm almost absolutely positive—that very same house whose owner stares at me with his large blue eyes every single time I pass. Shaking my head, I look up to read the signs of the small intersection, just to be sure; _Apple Street_ , which the front of the house faces, crosses perpendicularly with _Sherwood Ave_ that borders the right side.

I can't believe it. _Silent Blue Eyes is the country's bestseller, most esteemed author?_ I shake my head. This can't possibly be right. But it is.

 _Number 23_. I walk up the steps of his porch, heart pounding in my chest. Why I feel so nervous, I know not. Perhaps it's because we've seen each other on multiple occasions. Surely he'd recognize me and know who I am. Surely, he has witnessed me walk by with one of his bestsellers clutched to my chest like a child's teddybear.

 _Why hasn't he said anything?_ But then again, I suppose he's not obliged to do such a thing. After all, we are only neighbors.

I take a deep breath to clear my thoughts before knocking thrice on that forest-y green door of his. It takes just about twenty seconds before I hear the lock turning and see the door opening wide to reveal the author with, surprisingly, just as stunned a look on his features as mine. Again, I'm rendered speechless as we continue to stare agape at one another. Now that I'm this close, I realize the intensity of those sapphire blue eyes that seem to extend for lightyears like the millions of galaxies that lie beyond the earth. Even so, if I look close enough, I can see the stars. His features are gentle. There is a light stubble that runs across the lower part of his face, and a faint mustache just under his nose. His hair is a very light blonde, the sides looking almost silver in color. No doubt, I am looking up into the features of a very handsome author.

It's curious the way he looks at me. It's almost as if he sports a look of awe and disbelief in his eyes. It puzzles me, for surely, there can't be much more than just a pair of dark chocolate eyes, rouge lips, and a pale face. Mary Margaret always told me that I look like something out of a fairytale: features dark, bold, and beautiful…I'm not so sure about that. I'm not so sure what he sees in me now, but I know that whatever it is, it's making me somewhat agitated.

"Can I help you?" the author speaks, and I have to stifle a gasp the moment I hear that gentle British accent I've had the pleasure of reading about in the newspapers, but never heard. His voice is so soft, I feel as if he would be incredibly good at reading nursery rhymes and bedtime stories. He is an author after all.

I blink myself from my reverie and shake my head. "I—um," I clear my throat, handing the envelope to him a bit more abruptly than intended. The man almost jumps. "This was delivered to my house. It's addressed to you."

I watch as the man takes the envelope and turns it over, brow furrowing as he reads over the return address. His eyes widen in recognition. "Old Will," he says, his features growing pleasant as he shakes his head fondly. He looks up at me. "Thank you, I've been waiting for this."

I smile slightly before nodding my head. I'm just about turning to head off his porch and get the hell away from there when suddenly he speaks again.

"Wait!"

I turn around, brown eyes wide and boring into his.

"Do I get the pleasure of knowing your name?" he inquires, "I see you passing my house almost every morning. It would be nice to put a name to your face."

I sigh deeply, turning fully to face him once more. "Regina," I reply, "Regina Mills. Very nice to meet you, Mr. Locksley."

I see a small, almost shy, smile stretch his lips as he extends his hand. He shakes his head, chuckling softly. "Please, call me Robin," he states warmly.

His smile is infectious, and I can't help but smile back as I grasp his proffered hand and give him a firm handshake.

"Would you like to come in for a moment?" he offers, "I—um—it's rather chilly outside. You look cold."

I look into his eyes, reading the almost pleading look written so evidently upon his gaze. He looks…hopeful. I swallow hard, shifting from one foot to another as I cross my arms in front of my chest. Loathe as I am to admit it, I would feel guilty for turning him down. I sigh softly before nodding my response, a half smile turning up the corners of my lips.

Robin's smile at my acquiescence splits his lips and he shifts out of the doorway to hold the door for me. I glance at him from beneath my lashes as I walk through the threshold of his abode. The moment I'm inside, I am immediately hit with the smell of something cinnamon baking fresh in the oven. I lift my nose towards the aroma that wafts through the air, warming the entire house like a blanket with its welcoming scent.

"Cinnamon cookies," Robin explains with a smile, gesturing towards the kitchen. "They're just about ready. If you'd have the pleasure of trying one?"

I smile warmly before nodding. "I would," I reply, moving onward to follow him into the kitchen via the living room. "Thank you."

It's not a large kitchen; just enough for needed appliances along with a space on which to cook. It's a rather cosy. I walk further in, watching like a fish out of water as the author moves about the room to collect a hot pad and cooling rack for said cookies. If there is one thing that I'm weak for, it would be fresh homemade cookies straight from the oven.

"Milk?" Robin asks, heading over to the refrigerator. He looks over at me expectantly.

"Please," I say before shaking my head. "Do you need help with anything?"

"Oh, no," the author replies, grabbing the milk and moving over to the cupboard to retrieve a few glasses. "I got it, I—" Suddenly one of the plastic cups slips from his hand and clatters to the floor, making me jump in slight surprise. I can't help but smirk slightly at the man's awkwardness as he tries to bend down and collect the dropped cup. When the second one drops, I'm letting out a short laugh, to which the man looks up at me with a face as red a tomato. I have to admit that it is quite an endearing look. I shake my head, deciding it best to put the man out of misery and bend down to lend him a hand.

"At least you didn't spill the milk," I comment with a smirk as I place the cups safe and sound on top of the counter.

Robin shakes his head. "Forgive me," he answers meekly, opening the milk and pouring us both a sufficient amount. "I'm not usually this clumsy."

I smile gently. "It's quite all right. I have my ungraceful moments, I can assure you."

"Oh, I doubt it," he replies, eyes sparkling.

I laugh softly. "Oh, I do," I reassure as he turns to pull the freshly baked cookies from the oven just at the sound of the bell. "They smell incredible," I remark, taking in a generous whiff.

"Thank you," Robin responds humbly. He begins to lay the cookies on the rack one by one. "I don't usually bake that often. This batch is a welcome treat for my boy. He's with his mother right now, but I'm hoping that it'll be a nice little surprise for when he comes home."

My eyes widen at this piece of information. However, it's not really news. I remember reading that he had a son…a son with a brunette named Marian, from whom he'd split quite recently. That part always intrigued me to say the least. For here is a man who writes so much about the positive when at the same time, has been dealing with a darkness within his own life. It simply boggles my mind how one can stay so optimistic when even in the darkest moments. Is there really such a thing as having _that_ much hope?

"Right," I breathe, "You have a son."

"How did you already know that?" Robin inquires, and immediately, I realize my mistake. My mouth snaps closed.

"Oh, um…I read…" I trail off.

 _Shit_. I shake my head. _Ah, fuck it._

"I'm a fan of your writing," I confess with a small smile, "I've read of you often in the paper. I can't get enough of your books. They're just so inspiring..."

Nothing prepares me for the look he gives me next: a look of sheer delight. It's as if no one has ever given him such a compliment before, which is strange because he's the _No. 1 Bestseller_ in the country. His eyes are alight, their very energy strong and bright enough to power the sun itself. His smile is shining, and I quickly find it inevitably warming my heart. But what I don't quite understand is why exactly a simple compliment from my lips revokes such a reaction. Surely, he hears a thousand and one comments of the like a day.

"You read my books," he almost whispers.

I nod, still slightly bewildered. "Um, yes…Yes I do."

I watch as the man shakes his head almost as if in awe. "I was hoping you would," he states softly, blue eyes chancing a glance into mine.

"Wait. What do you mean?" I tilt my head confusedly.

Robin chuckles softly. "I was hoping that at least one of those books that you carry past my house each day were mine." He sighs softly, reaching down to pluck a cookie from the rack and hand it to me. "To be honest, I consider it an honor to have you read what I wrote."

I furrow my brows at him, still not quite understanding. I'm just an ordinary woman. Sure, I've been through my fair share of trials and tribulations. And to be honest, I'm still not over many of them. But that's all. I live in the shadows. I keep to myself. There's nothing spectacular about that. Again, I ask the question. _What does he see in me?_

I reach out and take the cookie. But as my fingers brush against his, I swear I feel almost an electric spark, a small zap, a current of electricity traveling from his fingers to my own. I can see that he felt it too, and hear his subtle gasp.

"Why do you consider yourself honored if I so happen to read your writing?" I ask genuinely. "Why is it so special that I read your books? I'm sure that there are far more important people than I, whom you should be worried about…publishers, critics."

Robin shakes his head. "No, Regina," he replies softly. My heart leaps at the sound of my name off his tongue. "Your opinion is all that really matters."

"But why?" I persist, "Robin, I'm nothing."

At my statement, the man's eyes widen. He shakes his head once more, this time, more fervently. "Oh, no, Regina," he breathes, "You're the most beautiful woman I've ever seen." My lips part in shock, never expecting for one second that those words would spill from his lips.

Robin closes his eyes. "I've watched you for a while now," he confesses quietly, "The way you walk down the street on the way to work, the world seemingly ceasing all action to admire you as you pass by. The way you shop at the grocery store, your dark brows furrowed in concentration, red lips slightly pursed. And the way you read at the park, your eyes gazing intently at the pages in front of you, your features relaxed…distant as you are taken away to a whole other world. I've watched you, studied you: the way you talk to others, the way you sit by yourself. There's a look in your eye, a look that shows great strength…but also great suffering." Robin opens his eyes, looking profoundly into my own. He searches my dark gaze. "You are a buried treasure, Regina. And if you will have it, I want to discover you…all of you."

It's silent between us; nothing but the sound of our breathing invading the peace as he finishes his small speech. But I can hear my heart pound in my ears, loud and crystal clear. In any other context, what he has just revealed to me can be taken a completely different way. But for me, his words are revelatory. I had not known all this time that whenever I was out of the house, there was always this possibility of being studied by—I don't know—a secret admirer? The term scares me. I'm just not ready. But as I look into his eyes in this moment, I can't help but feel as if I'm safe. However, it takes much more than a simple ax to chop down thick walls of ice.

"Robin, I don't know what to say. You've brought this on so suddenly, I…" I sigh, shaking my head. "I'm a hard woman to get close to. I need time."

"Take all the time you need, Regina," Robin says gently, "I will wait for you. I just…I just wanted to tell you how I feel." The man breaks our gaze to look downward almost as if he's ashamed. "I've been trying to work up the courage to come up to you. It was as if I was in grade school again. But another thing that intrigued me about you is that you are so elusive. Here one moment, gone the next. But then I guess fate brought you to my door."

He reaches over, touching the back of my hand that rests on the countertop. Again, I feel that small spark. "Give me a chance, Regina," he pleads softly, "Let me open your heart."

I smile sadly, shaking my head as I place the cookie that I'd been holding for the past ten minutes back down on the rack. Standing up, I can read the look of rejection written so painfully across the hopeful author's features. It breaks my heart. Truly, it does.

"Thank you for inviting me in, Robin," I bid softly, peeking up at him as the man reluctantly stands with me. I smile a watery smile, one of fondness and sympathy. "I look forward to reading your new release."

With that, I'm turning away, heading swiftly towards the door. I am just about to grab the handle when suddenly, his voice stops me in my tracks.

"I hope you enjoy it," he calls, stepping behind me. I frown, turning around slowly to face him. He smiles softly, his eyes so full of a warmth of which I find I would never tire. "I wrote it for you."

My heart leaps in my throat at his confession, my eyes widening. "For me?" I barely croak.

The author nods quietly, and suddenly everything clicks. The woman on the front cover with raven locks, pale face, plump red lips, the tear running down her cheek.

"The woman on the cover…" I speak slowly, "Is she—is she me?" He couldn't possibly have modeled the main character after me… _Could he?_ Oh, out of all the people in the world, this bestseller chooses _me_.

An oh so minuscule smirk dons the lips of Locksley as the great author stares down at me with a sparkle in his eye. He tilts his head to the side, his demeanor cryptic, but in a playful type of way. His mood is infectious.

"Well, you'll just have to read and find out, milady."

* * *

 **As you read, I kinda wanted to show a different side to Regina, a softer and more vulnerable side because we don't see that very often. Also decided to switch up my style and write in first person. Strangely, I feel like it came more naturally...**

 **I hope you enjoyed it and let me know what you think!**


End file.
